An Untold Conspiracy

by Pawan Mishra

  He wasn’t the kind heavily invested in keeping up outward appearances, but the kind who believed in inward well-being, and hence did not pay much attention to the things that embellished his outward appearance. He generally wore loose, dull-colored clothes. These clothes, if his colleagues were to be believed, had served his father for a few years before serving him. If it had not been for his belt, which was admirably dependable for keeping the trousers from slipping beyond the territory of decorum, those loose trousers would have left no stone unturned to flow with the gravitational force. His walking style was discussed in great detail as well: a gait that made it seem as if a narrow open sewage line passed right between his legs.

  The office unit belonged to an old private firm run by one of the ancient business families in the region. While the interior of the second floor was state-of-the-art, the interior of the first floor was too aged to keep secret the necessity for a comprehensive repair. The thirty-plus years of marriage between the ceiling and the cement plaster showed signs of weakness by the plaster’s frequently developing cracks and holes. Now and then a small portion detached itself from the ceiling, took flight, and attacked the proceedings below without a warning. Whenever this happened, everyone at once gathered around the site of the impact. If the plaster happened to hit a living being, it made the occasion even more special. A few pinched the victim while a few playful types took the opportunity, depending on the range of playfulness of the victim, to pat him gently on usually restricted areas, putting on an act as if clearing dust from his clothes. The victim turned into an instant celebrity for the rest of the day.

  On a few occasions, when the plaster came out during lunchtime and landed in someone’s lunchbox, the mob took hold of the lunchbox from the proud owner and went on to complete two rounds within the office in a procession, interchangeably carrying the lunchbox on their heads. They passionately dramatized the proceedings, behaving as though they were carrying a coffin to the graveyard, constantly chanting a dirge indigenous to the office; the leader asked the questions and the rest answered in unison.

  “What is life?”

  “A lousy puzzle with missing pieces.”

  “Is there a God?”

  “Yes there is, yes there is.”

  “Who bestows life?”

  “He does, He does.”

  “And who takes it away?”

  “Damn! He does, He does.”

  “Whose turn is this today?”

  “This one is done for, surely done for.”

  “What shall we ask now?”

  “Rest this lunatic soul in peace, yes, in peace.”

  They then surrounded one of the trash cans, seriously chanting mantras used during sacred offerings to God, and thereafter emptied the box into the trash can before returning it to the honored owner.

  The interior office walls were painted light green, and the long-standing furniture matched the color well. Devoid of aesthetics, the overuse of the dull green color in the room couldn’t have been deliberate. Therefore, it seemed that the furniture had acquired the color of the wall by way of continuously absorbing it for years. And it was a possibility that there was a rapid back-and-forth transmission between both sides in order to achieve a joint convergence on a perfect sameness in color.

  The office area on the second floor was very small compared to the first floor. The elevator opened up right opposite the reception desk, behind the waiting couches. There were office rooms for managers on both sides of the reception area. The biggest and most luxurious room on the right side of reception belonged to Jay, the unit head. A similar-size room on the left was reserved for ABC, and was kept locked at all times because ABC’s visits to the office were very rare, and entirely undesired because of the casualties caused by each visit. No one knew the exact roots of the sovereign power ABC savored.

  There were several other office rooms on the second floor, occupied by important-looking people who were chanced upon only in the elevator, and whose source of importance was thus not known to anyone.

  The tables on the first floor were always full of files. These tables appeared to be yearning for a break after several years of service. Not many at the office treated them with the respect they were worthy of. What if these tables did not watch over the important papers while the associates were away? One can easily guess how ill-behaved these papers could become at times—especially with the companionship of electric fans.

  Ratiram not only knew but also felt deeply in his heart how immeasurably vital these tables were. These were simply his bread and butter. Hypothetically, if the tables were to go away for any reason—of whatever nature it could have been, presumably of the kind that invariably caught ordinary people like him unaware—he had no doubt in his mind that his job would follow them.

  Ratiram, who had started his job as a janitor at this office during the olden days, had gotten a promotion ten years later to become a junior administrative assistant and had held the same position ever since. His job description wasn’t formally documented, having been shaped over the years by all and sundry. Still undocumented, it included doing anything that the associates could think of within the purview of office boundaries and the market outside. The majority of his work was to move files from desk to desk, from one person to another. With the files, he also moved gossip.

  Even though Ratiram’s was the lowest rank in the office, he was the most respected person on the first floor, immeasurably gifted with intellectual wisdom. Everyone found a friendly listener in him. He was an artist who molded his behavior and conversation as it worked best for the other party—just as a great musician improvises her notes with a fellow musician during a class performance.

  Hukum and his gang were second only to Ratiram in the art of relentlessly keeping the grapevine alive.

  When Hukum joined, on his very first day at the office, his adroit eyes did not fail to notice that a group of three, Daya, Sevak, and Panna, always moved together. In gatherings of any sort, even those of a spiritual drift, he noticed that these three could be seen inaudibly sharing funny observations in a corner, accompanied by violent mute gestures. Even during the gatherings where a complete silence prevailed, such as those for listening to a speaker, they mutely mimed eloquent laughing gestures among themselves. It seemed that they found a lot of fun with every mundane thing. There was a dream team to be with! Hukum kept a curious watch over the group until he felt an irresistible desire for a friendship with them, and introduced himself.

  The group of three received him enthusiastically. It was a mutual pull, as they later discussed during a drinking session.

  Hukum’s insertion into the group was so natural that within a week it seemed they had been together for a year. When Hukum went outside for a smoke, the rest of them accompanied him, even though none of the three smoked.

  Who had been the leader of the gang of three prior to Hukum’s advent was not known, but in a short period Hukum assumed leadership, without leaving anyone with hard feelings. On the first floor, they went by “Hukum’s gang” or simply “the gang.”

  The gang apparently knew of a fascinating place that they candidly talked about ceaselessly without revealing its name or location. Others claimed, though, that it existed only in their fantasy world.

  On occasions when the gang believed someone was eavesdropping on them, one of them let out a deep sigh of agony, calling out, “Let’s take him to our holy den this time, I am sure his world view will transpose upside down.” At this the gang would laugh uproariously and continue the big talk about the agony of not having been at their hangout for the past few days.

  Once, in the past, people had felt the itch to know everything about the place and had made their best attempts in that direction, using various tactics, until a complete lack of success prompted them to ignore their curiosity and conserve energy. It was then, to increase the likelihood of the gang’s revealing the details themselves, they embraced a belief that the place didn’t even exist.


  The gang shrewdly responded neither positively nor negatively to the notion.

  3. Thus, Coinman

  The most ironic thing in the world is having no say when your name is determined for the first time (which is also for the last time for most), because newborns are not necessarily known for speaking their minds.

  But when a new name is acquired thereafter, it’s generally not without a perfect harmony with one’s will.

  Coinman was an exception. At age twenty-five, he had gotten a new name, Coinman, without having a say. He had felt sad back then at in effect losing his earlier name, Kesar, yet quite helpless to do anything about it.

  No one could ever recall who deserved the credit for inventing his new name. It was certain, though, that his colleagues had repeatedly started referring to him as “Coinman” behind his back during gossip sessions about his tireless fondness for coins; then, at a later point, this name sprang beyond the periphery of the gossip sessions to breach all facets of his life.

  First the office openly started calling him “Coinman.” Then one day the name mysteriously showed up on all his office records as well. It was as if someone, behind closed doors, had cleverly erased “Kesar” from every place it appeared and replaced it with “Coinman.”

  The first time his new name figured on an official document, in the office newsletter, he dismissed it as a joke played by his colleagues. But thereafter, all official letters bore his new name. In protest he returned all his letters to the mailing department. When his letters formed a big bundle and could no longer be accommodated in his mailbox at the office, they caught the eye of the mail manager, who immediately paid a visit to his desk to deliver his letters personally and wanted to know the reason behind his earlier refusals.

  Coinman protested that these were not his letters, that they were for someone named “Coinman.” The officer clarified that the administration pulled names from the employee database and advised him to follow up with the Human Resources department. Later, an executive in that department showed him that in their records, his name had been “Coinman” from day one.

  “How could that happen?” Coinman exploded in anger. “Isn’t the HR department supposed to help the employees, rather than harassing them?”

  The executive pretended he did not hear him and said he failed to see the issue.

  Helpless on this, Coinman took it up with his then-supervisor, who, to his relief, acknowledged this as a mistake and promised him to get it corrected. But the supervisor left the company the following week due to an unrelated matter.

  “You can make any promises as long as you are not going to be there to fulfill them.” Coinman confided in Ratiram, grinding his teeth.

  Then he was introduced as Coinman to his next supervisor, who was appointed after much dust had already settled over the affair. That left no room for meaningful protest.

  It was decided for Coinman by the stars above that he was to live the rest of his life with his new name.

  Initially the new name seemed to force him into a different life filled with troubling glimpses of the past. He was inconsolably sad for several days.

  His given name, Kesar, had been a birthday gift from his favorite uncle, Sukhi. Coinman recalled how his mother used to tell him the story of his name, and that until he was three years old, he went by several names. Spellbound by his innocent infancy, the uncles, the aunts, and the rest of his relatives had exhausted their respective warmhearted signature creativities in inventing these names: Tiktik, Peehoo, Kesar, Munna, Betu, Muaah, Puchcha, Chunnu, Chhona, Lal, Ladla, Laddu, PuchPuch, Happu, Paaru, and Daukast.

  Daukast was his mother Kasturi’s favorite, her own invention, for it partially incorporated her name as well as his father Daulat’s. No one else liked it.

  Uncle Sukhi came to their rescue. On Coinman’s third birthday, Uncle Sukhi invited all the relatives to his own house. In the afternoon, after the guests were exhausted from playing games, chatting, and dining, Sukhi explained the gravity of the nameless situation and its potential effect on the child’s future life if allowed to continue. He then conducted a poll by distributing a sheet of paper containing a list of all the prevailing names and asked everyone to tick the name of their choice.

  There was a tie between Munna and Kesar for the top spot. The dilemma was short-lived after Uncle Sukhi declared, “The letter K always appears in the alphabet before the letter M. Given it’s too late for experimenting with the surname now, if there is ever a situation where the alphabetical order of the first name is one of the criteria for a certain benefit, like assigning seats in a classroom, or standing in a queue, or assigning a roll number, or even determining a rank in the exam when all other criteria tie as well, ‘Kesar’ will outshine ‘Munna.’” Everyone applauded the flawless logic.

  “And before I forget to mention,” Uncle Sukhi further declared, “the results of the state high school board examinations have just come in this morning, and you know what? A boy named Kesar is in first place. Can there be a more desirable coincidence?”

  This sealed it. Kasturi added, to console the equal majority that favored “Munna,” “I personally loved the name Munna. I promise that if we have another son in future, I am going to name him Munna.”

  Uncle Sukhi then labeled the child Kesar for the entire day, by putting a sticker on his forehead to cement only one name in everybody’s mind.

  With such an affectionate past behind his earlier name, Coinman felt a moral obligation to visit Uncle Sukhi; an apology over the phone was not proper penance for the fumble.

  As he reached Uncle Sukhi’s house, he saw, through the wrought iron gate, that Uncle Sukhi was sitting in his garden reading a newspaper. His left hand clenched the coins to stop the jingling sound for few moments. He silently opened the gate and approached Sukhi’s chair with quiet steps. He covered his uncle’s eyes with his right hand and wondered how to disguise his voice. He thought of holding his nose, but then rejected the idea, as that would have required him to free up his left hand from coins. Holding a handkerchief next to mouth was also out of the question for the same reason. He then thought of pretending a speech impediment, but rejected this because he had not practiced. He settled for muffling his voice by burying his mouth in his right shoulder and clenching his teeth at the same time.

  Coinman’s pondering over ways to modulate his voice had allowed Sukhi to grab at his hand for a few moments.

  “Guess who?” Coinman said excitedly.

  “Ramdin?”

  “No.”

  “Shyamsundar?”

  “No.”

  “Damn you, the grandson of your very own father-in-law!” cursed Sukhi in excitement. “Who the heck are you?”

  “You have to guess.”

  “Only Ramdin and Shyamsundar stray here once in a while. I know of no one else who can visit this wasteland.”

  “Ta-da!” Coinman said, jumping to face his uncle, after releasing his eyes.

  “Kesar. My son!” Sukhi shouted, and stood up to hug him. He appeared a bit embarrassed by his earlier teasing remarks. Sukhi held Coinman’s hands affectionately to take him inside the house. He went into the kitchen and immediately started pumping the kerosene pressure stove to prepare tea, although Coinman noticed the tremor in his old hands dissipated a large fraction of the force he was trying to apply to the pump.

  A retired clerk from the government water supply department, Uncle Sukhi stayed alone in his house. He hadn’t married. Having no child of his own, he had always showered his share of love on the kids of his relations, and Coinman had received a lion’s share. During Coinman’s childhood, Uncle Sukhi had frequently visited the family to spend weeks just playing with Coinman, until his frequent visits caused fights between Coinman’s parents, Daulat and Kasturi. During a particular visit, when Coinman was five years old, Daulat did not speak a word to Sukhi. Sukhi tried many times to strike up a conversation with him, but without luck. Kasturi too wasn’t timely, either, with serving meals.
Sukhi understood that Coinman’s parents could not have allowed themselves to make a more explicit disapproval of his visits. He had left the house and never returned, even when Daulat had specifically invited him several times later.

  Such delicacies are relationships.

  Now that he was with Uncle Sukhi, Coinman did not know how to convey the purpose of his visit, so he suspended its mention until the opportunity surfaced on its own. Coinman stayed with his uncle for a week; they played cards, listened to old songs, went on long walks, and just sat in the park for long hours watching kids play.

  At last, when Coinman was ready to leave, Uncle Sukhi kissed his hands and invited him to visit more often. He made no secret of considering himself indebted to Coinman for coming all the way from a distant city just to see an old man of no importance. The opportunity—probably the last one—was in Coinman’s grasp to achieve the objective behind his visit; but his resolve failed him yet again. He couldn’t bear the possibility of hurting Uncle Sukhi. Uncle Sukhi forced a hundred-rupee bill into his hand before Coinman left.

  With time Coinman came to terms with his new name. To bring uniformity to all references about him, he got his name changed accordingly outside the office, too: at banks, at government offices, on his ration card, on his barber’s books, and everywhere else. He was formally honored by the neighborhood society for demonstrating a great spirit. He received broad applause during the award ceremony, when he summarized it all by saying, “What is there in a name? Mother Teresa—if she had been called by any other name, would it have mattered to the people she helped? Would it have made the reverential grand soul any less powerful? It’s not the name but the character that is important. Can anyone ever change someone’s character?”

  Unlike the roots of his name, the roots of his profound interest in coins could never be traced with complete certainty. Everyone had to rely on a long-standing rumor that was universally promoted until it had acquired the status of verifiable truth.